The old lord paused, and breathed for a little space, as it were gathering breath for his last words to his son.  He breathed deliberately, then spoke again.  “I leave you,” he said, “well content that you have the two accomplishments, my son, that are most needful in a Christian man, skill with the sword and a way with the mandolin.  There be other arts indeed among the heathen, for the world is wide and hath full many customs, but these two alone are needful.”  And then with that grand manner that they had at that time in Spain, although his strength was failing, he gave to his eldest son his Castilian sword.  He lay back then in the huge, carved, canopied bed; his eyes closed, the red silk curtains rustled, and there was no sound of his breathing.  But the old lord’s spirit, whatever journey it purposed, lingered yet in its ancient habitation, and his voice came again, but feebly now and rambling; he muttered awhile of gardens, such gardens no doubt as the hidalgos guarded in that fertile region of sunshine in the proudest period of Spain; he would have known no others.  So for awhile his memory seemed to stray, half blind among those perfumed earthly wonders; perhaps among these memories his spirit halted, and tarried those last few moments, mistaking those Spanish gardens, remembered by moonlight in Spring, for the other end of his journey, the glades of Paradise.  However it be, it tarried.  These rambling memories ceased and silence fell again, with scarcely the sound of breathing.  Then gathering up his strength for the last time and looking at his son, “The sword to the wars,” he said.  “The mandolin to the balconies.”  With that he fell back dead.

Now there were no wars at that time so far as was known in Spain, but that old lord’s eldest son, regarding those last words of his father as a commandment, determined then and there in that dim, vast chamber to gird his legacy to him and seek for the wars, wherever the wars might be, so soon as the obsequies of the sepulture were ended.  And of those obsequies I tell not here, for they are fully told in the Black Books of Spain, and the deeds of that old lord’s youth are told in the Golden Stories.  The Book of Maidens mentions him, and again we read of him in Gardens of Spain.  I take my leave of him, happy, I trust, in Paradise, for he had himself the accomplishments that he held needful in a Christian, skill with the sword and a way with the mandolin; and if there be some harder, better way to salvation than to follow that which we believe to be good, then are we all damned.  So he was buried, and his eldest son fared forth with his legacy dangling from his girdle in its long, straight, lovely scabbard, blue velvet, with emeralds on it, fared forth on foot along a road of Spain.  And though the road turned left and right and sometimes nearly ceased, as though to let the small wild flowers grow, out of sheer good will such as some roads never have; though it ran west and east and sometimes south, yet in the main